At The Food Bank

Hands that reach out

Hands gratefully take

Hands that are rich

To hands that are empty

Hands that have much

To hands that have nothing

Both hands give thanks


Mouths that are full of grace

To mouths that are full of need

Mouths that bring prosperity

To mouths that bring poverty

Mouths give what they have

To mouths that need what they give

Both mouths give thanks


Hearts that are full of abundance

To hearts full of longing

Hearts that bring forth peace

To hearts that yearn for peace

Hearts that are divinely filled

To hearts that need the Divine

Both hearts give thanks


©2017 Valerie Hathaway


Clouds like steel wool

Rub and create sparks

That plummet to the earth

Splitting a tree into tinder

Or a transformer to molten steel

It may scorch the ground

Set fire to the forests

The clouds move on, chastening

Their charges loudly

And they spark again

Onto themselves and the land


© 2017 Valerie Hathaway

The Psych Ward

The room was enormous

Walk past the nurse’s station

They were doing paperwork

In a far corner was a TV and couch

There were a few people watching

The rest were wandering or in bed

Resting or crying out their pain

Someone would talk and never stop

There is a Code Violet on the other side

Where they keep the violent cases

A nurse runs over to help the overwhelmed

Staff there, I hear some yelling

I walk back to my room

My roommate is asleep and snoring

Another night of no rest

Another day of waning hope

I cannot see this doctor

He pegs me and gives me the wrong med

I suffer through the week

Because of his smug misdiagnosis

I will not come back here again

Not if I don’t have to

I want to live again and be free


© 2017 Valerie Hathaway

No One

No cries of a baby

No shrieks and laughter

No teen tirades

No see you later

No I’m home again

No I’m getting married

No I’m pregnant

No I’m so busy

No grand dinners

No reunions or homecomings

No grandchildren to cuddle

No children to tend to

No one knocking at the door


All is silence

All is lingering

In the sound of a machine

And someone paid to care


There is no one there


© 2017 Valerie Hathaway

Post 150

I’ve made it this far.

149 posts and some interesting deep dives, shallow paddling, and just getting wet.

My apologies to the Facebook viewers who were poem-bombed while I was adding tags to my older writings. I forgot that I set this up so it would automatically post to Facebook. I don’t know, maybe there was some poems worth reading.

Now as I turn this corner, a reawakening will be occurring. I’m going back to school (kind of, it’s online so far)  to work on a degree in Creative Writing. My first class is poetry, ironically. I’ll be hiding in my home office, trying out more words and will hopefully get a decent grade.

But for now it’s late afternoon, my work on the site is done. One cat is butting her head against my elbow. The other has taken her napping position on the couch. My husband is asleep as well. So other than the occasional meow, all is quiet.

Time to relax and let the imagination wander as it may.


Doubting Thomas

Would I be one who doubts like Thomas?

These limitations are what I owe

The world for my unique existence.

I mend my ways, darn the thoughts together,

String of work and fabric of toil.

They fall apart and I fix them again;

Maybe I need this pill, or that therapy.

But do I believe and receive holy fire?

My brain scrambles for that winning phrase,

The correct words to utter with conviction.

I yearn for that connection with faith,

But my eyes are shuttered and limbs useless.

Better to remain in the cupboard, hiding

Then to remove doubt and become vulnerable.

But there’s that sand grain of faith still,

Irritating the oyster to produce a pearl.

I must gather my mutterings and cast them aside

Walking into the mysterious night

Shutting the door and wait for belief

To be manifest in the hearts of the willing.


© 2017 Valerie Hathaway


Up from the ground it reaches for the sun

Mane-like flower with a bright yellow glow

Petals of gold expand and bring light out,

Nectar and pollen for bee and butterfly

The root burrows deep into the dirt

Green leaves spread and unfurl to the day

Then when fertilized by Nature’s own

The seeds unfold, ready to glide

Along the variable winds, waiting for more

And they float away, bringing another chance

Of birth and rebirth, for generations

Until they are weeded and cast out

Or munched into a rabbit’s buffet


© 2017 Valerie Hathaway


My life can be measured

In loads of fabric

Cut, sewn and shaped

Into some sort of meaning


Into the washer they

Mash all together

Wet, with soap they spin

Into a lumpy heap


Transfer most to the dryer

Where heat wicks the wet away

Except for a few to hang dry

According to dictation on the tag


When they are ready

They are folded and hung

To start the cycle anew

In moments of wear and sweat



© 2017 Valerie Hathaway


Sometimes I Want To Live

Sometimes I want to live

In cool breezes and calm waters

Where peaks rise in rocky splendor

And lakes lavish in green and blue.


Sometimes I want to live

Where sea crashes onto sand,

And palms weave and lean

Slightly into the ocean’s wind.


Sometimes I want to live

In wooden halls with wooden pews,

Where sunlight make an entrance

Through leaden stained glass.


But where I live is in none of these.

It is in a modest townhouse

With a modest yard where kids run through

And climb up on the rock, shrieking.


And yet my heart bids away

To distant lands and dreamy spaces,

To mountain and marine air

And the sounds of waves and trees.


© 2017 Valerie Hathaway